


kerosene dream

by ictus



Category: Fight Club (1999)
Genre: Dream Sex, Experimental Style, Extra Treat, M/M, Stream of Consciousness, Translation Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:00:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23443600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ictus/pseuds/ictus
Summary: Here’s the thing about Tyler Durden:Tyler fucks like a porn star. Tyler fucks like it’s an Olympic sport, and he’s a five-time gold medallist. Tyler fucks like a well-oiled machine, which may or may not be a metaphor in this instance. Tyler fucks like a god.And Tyler never,everholds back.
Relationships: Tyler Durden/Narrator
Comments: 29
Kudos: 157
Collections: Smut 4 Smut 2020





	kerosene dream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asuralucier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/gifts).



> Translation into Russian by [AnkouSgrin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnkouSgrin/pseuds/AnkouSgrin) available [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/9778867).

Here’s the thing about Tyler Durden:

Tyler fucks like a porn star. Tyler fucks like it’s an Olympic sport, and he’s a five-time gold medallist. Tyler fucks like a well-oiled machine, which may or may not be a metaphor in this instance. Tyler fucks like a god.

And Tyler never, _ever_ holds back. 

See, Tyler does this thing. He likes to crowd people: back them against a door or corner them in a bathroom, get right up in their space until their body is pressed flush against the wall, and say—

> “Twenty-five years ago there was nothing but air where you’re standing. In sixty years time, there will be air again. You are made of matter, and that matter is degrading. Second by second. Molecule by molecule.”

(by this point he’s leaned in so his lips are brushing theirs and he’s pressed a thigh between their legs, like the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle slotting into place)

> “So, with that in mind—”

(and this is the moment where he turns on the charm, flashes the kind of smile that looks like it belongs on tabloid magazines)

> “—do you wanna fuck?”

And that’s how it goes, every single time.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

The other thing about Tyler Durden, is that knowing how he fucks is very different to experiencing it first-hand. Tyler’s rough. He’s got the kind of grip that leaves bruises, and he’s not afraid to leave a mark. Tyler’s _loud_ , shouting obscenities with no care for neighbours or basic human decency. And Tyler’s cock is—

> “Jesus _Christ_.”
> 
> Tyler juts out his chin and gives himself a slow stroke, looking like every asshole jock that’s ever existed. “You like the look of that, do you?” he taunts, licking his lips.

—let’s just say that everything’s proportionate.

Tyler’s not really a ‘king size bed’ kind of guy. He’s more of a ‘up against a wall’ guy, or a ‘dive bar bathroom’ guy. Or, in this particular instance, it turns out he’s a ‘bent over the kitchen counter’ kind of guy.

> “Holy shit. Holy shit holy shit _holy shit._ ”
> 
> “Breathe,” Tyler says, flat and authoritative. It’s his command voice. His Fight Club voice. He presses in deeper, and it burns—like a chemical burn, like lye mixed with spit. It’s enough to make anyone hysterical.
> 
> “That’s easy for you to say, you’re not the one taking a dick up their—”

Hold on a minute.

Let’s start from the beginning.

*

The thing about insomnia is that nothing is really real. Everything is a copy of a copy of the thing about insomnia, is that nothing is really real. Everything is a copy of a copy of the thing about insomnia is that—

You get the picture.

Scientists have come up with two models for explaining insomnia: cognitive and physiological. The cognitive model suggests the root of the problem is psychological, that rumination or hyperarousal actively prevent sleep. The physiological model is more interesting. See, the body’s fear response is regulated by three primary structures: the hypothalamus, the pituitary gland, and the adrenal gland. Together they form the hypothalamus-pituitary-adrenal axis, which regulates levels of blood cortisol through the release of various hormones. There’s probably a Reader’s Digest about this.

_I am Jack’s hyperactive pituitary gland_.

The theory goes that if this balance is disrupted, cortisol—the stress hormone—can accumulate in the blood, leading to hyperarousal and difficulty sleeping. Guess the difference between the cognitive and physiological models isn’t so big after all.

> “Does this story have a point?” Tyler asks. Tyler’s always doing that. Showing up whenever he thinks things are getting off track, always there to steer the conversation in the right direction.
> 
> “Yeah, I’m getting to it.”

Anyway, the HPA axis runs on a negative feedback loop, which means that once a certain level of blood cortisol is reached, the hypothalamus detects this via glucocorticoid receptors and halts the cycle. The kicker is that cortisol is actually necrotic; it actively degrades the glucocorticoid receptors, which means that the more stressed you are—

> “—the less able you are to stop being stressed,” Tyler finishes. He smiles, a cigarette caught between his lips. Tyler’s always doing that too; stealing people’s thunder. It’s one of his less endearing habits.
> 
> “Exactly.”

_I am Jack’s degraded glucocorticoid receptors._

The other thing about insomnia is that is that nothing is really real. Everything is a copy of a copy. When you’re awake, you’re not really awake, and when you’re asleep, you’re not really asleep. The line between dreaming and reality becomes a blur.

At first, the dreams were ordinary enough: work, the house on Paper Street. One time, it was the nursery of a hospital, which was—

> “—so fucking weird,” Tyler says. “A hundred crying babies. Trying shut them up was like playing a game of whack-a-mole.” He grins, exhaling smoke in two perfect rings.

Yeah, that one got messy quick.

But recently, the dreams have gotten stranger. Like this one:

> “This is my condo.”
> 
> “ _Was_ your condo,” Tyler corrects. He’s stretched out on the Lidhult chaise lounge, looking like the kind of model you’d find on the cover of GQ magazine. Navy slacks and a leather jacket over his bare chest. He looks like James Dean.
> 
> The actor, that is. The porn star is James Deen. Although to be fair, Tyler looks a bit like him too.
> 
> “I’m dreaming.”
> 
> “Yeah, no shit,” Tyler says. “Your condo was blown to smithereens, remember?”

That’s right, the explosion. The detective had called earlier that day to say they had found dynamite residue at the scene. This means that it wasn’t an accident. They had also said that there were impurities in the dynamite: residues of ammonium oxalate and potassium perchloride.

This means that the bomb was homemade.

> “That reminds me, that detective called today. He thinks he has a lead.”
> 
> “Yeah, wonder who that could be,” Tyler says with a shrug. He picks a Glattis coaster up from the Regissör coffee table and tosses it carelessly out the open window.
> 
> “Hey man, cut that out.”
> 
> “What? It’s not even real,” Tyler says.
> 
> “Yeah, but that’s my stuff.”
> 
> Tyler sighs. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: the things you own—”
> 
> “—end up owning you, yes I know, it’s all very poetic. But if you could just stop—”
> 
> Tyler jumps to his feet. “What are you gonna do, huh? You gonna fight me?”
> 
> When Tyler doesn’t get a response, he flips the coffee table. Everything on top of it crashes to the ground, smashing on the Italian-imported ceramic tile. The Sannolik vase and the Bländande candle holders all shatter in an explosion of glass, broken into a thousand tiny pieces.
> 
> “Huh?” Tyler shouts. He picks up a self-help book from the upturned coffee table and throws it across the room. “Wanna fight!?”

This isn’t the strange part, in case you were wondering. See, Tyler believes in self-destruction over self-improvement. Sometimes, that destruction is more of the ‘mutually assured’ variety. When he’s like this, the question isn’t who is going to throw the first punch, but when.

No, the thing that’s strange about this dream, is the fact that the fight led to this:

> “Jesus Christ.”
> 
> Tyler juts out his chin as he gives himself a slow stroke, looking like every asshole jock that’s ever existed. “You like the look of that, do you?” he taunts, licking his split lip. His knuckles are still bloody from the fight, the bruises already a deep purple. “Well? Do you?”
> 
> “Yeah, I mean it’s not like I’ve seen a whole lot of dicks in my life so—”
> 
> Tyler laughs at that, coughing a little from when he took a hit to the ribs. It’s hard to say exactly who won the fight, but the fact that Tyler still has all his teeth means it was probably him.
> 
> “Get up and take off your pants,” Tyler says.
> 
> “Guess we’re skipping the part where we decide who’s fucking who.”
> 
> “Do you want to do this or not?” Tyler asks. “I mean, we could just go back to beating the crap out of each other, but that wasn’t working out so great for you either.”
> 
> “Are we really doing this in the kitchen?”
> 
> “Sure, why not? It’s not like any of this is real, anyway.” Tyler’s grip is harsh, almost unbreakable. The kind of grip that leaves bruises.
> 
> “Wait, shouldn’t we use a—”
> 
> Tyler spits into his palm. “No,” he says shortly.

It turns out Tyler doesn’t like to use condoms, not with guys. Marla Singer would probably have something to say about that. It also turns out that Tyler doesn’t carry single-serving, foil-wrapped packets of commercial lubricant.

So spit it is.

> “What, you’re not even going to by me dinner first?”
> 
> “Don’t get cute,” Tyler says. It’s all the warning he gives before he lines up and starts to push in.
> 
> “Holy shit. Holy shit holy shit _holy shit._ ”
> 
> “Breathe,” Tyler says, flat and authoritative. It’s his command voice. His Fight Club voice. He presses in deeper, and it burns—like a chemical burn, like lye mixed with spit. It’s enough to make anyone hysterical.
> 
> “That’s easy for you to say, you’re not the one taking a dick up their ass!”
> 
> Tyler chuckles lowly, his breath hot and humid. He pulls out halfway then spits on his dick again, only to press back in just as slowly.
> 
> “God, _fuck._ ”
> 
> Tyler’s smirk is almost audible in his voice. “That’s the plan.” He pulls out again, and on his next thrust he angles his hips _just_ so and—
> 
> “ _Oh._ ”

It’s the sort of fake moan you hear in cheap pornos, the kind that have been rented so many times the cassette skips a little. Wanton and uninhibited and everything that cheesy romance novels have ever promised.

Except this one is perfectly, agonisingly genuine.

> “Yeah, you like that,” Tyler says, speeding up. He hits that spot on every thrust until the only sound in the apartment is broken moans and the slap of skin on skin. Filthy, dirty, animalistic fucking. “Knew I’d have you moaning like a bitch in heat.”
> 
> “Fuck you.”
> 
> “Actually,” Tyler says, leaning in close. “Fuck _you_ ,” he says, and slams in hard.

Only Tyler could make getting fucked up the ass feel good. Even though it’s all just basic physiological processes, just an endless feedback loop of stimulus and reaction, there’s something about the way Tyler does it that makes it feel—transcendental.

_I am Jack’s overstimulated mesolimbic pathway._

> “Hey hey,” Tyler says, snapping his fingers. “Come back to me.”
> 
> “I’m here!”
> 
> “Are you?” Tyler asks, driving in hard now. Elsewhere, the Björskta frame containing a stock photo of a dandelion falls to the ground and shatters. “Because I want you to enjoy this.”
> 
> “I— _ah_ —I am.”
> 
> “What’s that?” Tyler asks, a smug edge to his voice. The Kallax shelving unit begins to shake, its contents rattling. The Vanligen vase topples right off it, exploding into a thousand glass splinters where it hits the tile.
> 
> “I said I am!”
> 
> “You’re what?” Tyler asks.
> 
> “I’m enjoying this! Alright, I said it, are you happy?”
> 
> The entire condo is starting to shake now, books tumbling off shelves and kitchenware falling out of cupboards. The room erupts in a symphony of breaking glass, an endless cascade of plates, bowls and cups, all of them lovingly handmade and carefully accumulated over the course of a lifetime.
> 
> “What’s happening? Is this an earthquake or—” 
> 
> “Not an earthquake,” Tyler says, picking up speed. If he keeps this up, this is going to be over embarrassingly quickly.
> 
> “Then—”
> 
> “It is only by breaking your attachment to your physical possessions that you can achieve enlightenment. It is only by destroying yourself that you can discover the power of your spirit.”

Only Tyler could monologue about enlightenment while fucking someone, and still not miss a beat. Only Tyler could drive someone to the point of orgasm, even as the room begins to collapse around them.

> “Are you listening to me?” Tyler asks. “This is not the time to take a mental vacation!” The whole condo jolts in a sickening lurch, sending the refrigerator toppling to its side. Tyler doesn’t pause for a second. Fucker doesn’t even sound out of breath.
> 
> “Yes— _fuck_ —I’m listening. But my condo already got blown up so—”
> 
> “But it still exists in your mind,” Tyler says. He begins to slow, his hips stuttering until he stills completely. He somehow feels even bigger like this; not moving, just waiting. “You need to let it go.”
> 
> “Okay, I’ve let it go, can you just—”
> 
> “Have you?” Tyler asks. “Because you keep coming back here, like it’s your cave, like you’re going to find your power animal or whatever the fuck you fantasise about and just abandon reality entirely.”
> 
> There are cracks in the ceiling now. This place isn’t going to hold up for much longer.
> 
> “I’m not trying to escape, I’m—”
> 
> “Promise me.”
> 
> “Yes Tyler, I promise, now will you please just fuck me!?”
> 
> The windows blow out of their frames, their glass raining down onto the street below. The pipes burst out of the walls, dousing the room in a spray of water. The ceiling slowly begins to crumble, debris falling all around.
> 
> And yet all Tyler does is laugh, leaning in close. “You got it.”

*

Here’s the thing about Tyler Durden:

Tyler fucks like a porn star. Tyler fucks like Adonis himself, reincarnated and made mortal once more. Tyler fucks like he fights: no holds barred and no holding back. Tyler fucks like a god.

It’s hard to forget this, even hours after the dream fades. Even after waking to find the house leaking again. Even after shutting off the fuse box and lighting the candles.

Tyler’s downstairs, cooking breakfast in his pink fluffy robe. It’s impossible not to look at his hands and remember how they felt in the dream. It’s also impossible not to look at the frying pan of sizzling bacon and think of bags of lard stolen from clinics and melted into soap.

> “Morning,” Tyler says with all his usual cheer. But there’s something about the look in his eye, something that wasn’t there yesterday.

He knows. He knows he knows _he knows_ —

> “Morning.”
> 
> “Coffee’s good to go,” Tyler says, gesturing with the spatula.
> 
> “Thanks.” Fixing the coffee is a good distraction. Anything to avoid making eye contact with Tyler.
> 
> “I’ve been thinking about our next job,” Tyler says, scooping the eggs out of the pan and sliding them onto slightly-burnt toast. Thank God the gas doesn’t go out when it rains too.
> 
> “Oh?” The coffee’s scalding hot and tastes like battery acid. Nothing new there.
> 
> “Yeah, it came to me in a dream last night,” Tyler says with a wink.

No way. There’s no way he could know.

> “This one’s gonna need our demolition team,” Tyler says, carrying the plates to the table. “And we’re gonna need a metric ass-tonne of nitro-glycerine.” He turns one of the chairs around and sits on it backwards, his arms folded over the back. Across the table, he feels both too close and too far away.
> 
> “Okay. So what’s the target?”
> 
> “Our target—”

(and this is the moment where he turns on the charm, flashes the kind of smile that looks like it belongs on tabloid magazines)

> “—is IKEA.”

Everything suddenly grinds to a halt. Every atom in the universe freezes in place. The glaciers stop melting at the ice caps, the endangered pandas stop screwing. Even the earth stops turning.

This is the sort of silence they were talking about when they coined the phrase, _you could hear a pin drop._

> “IKEA?”
> 
> Tyler takes a bite out of a triangle of toast, his smile growing brighter. “That’s right. IKEA.”

Oh fuck, he _definitely_ knows.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/scansionictus).


End file.
